


Still My Pride Is Screaming

by wyrvel



Series: Foulkhai Brainworms [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Au Ra Xaela (Final Fantasy XIV), Coerthas Roadtrip, Fix-It of Sorts, Foulques You Are So Annoying. God Bless, Ixali Beast Tribe...2!, Lalafell (Final Fantasy XIV), M/M, Multimedia, Other, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23075266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyrvel/pseuds/wyrvel
Summary: Khaishan only wanted to safely take Foulques out of the Twelveswood, but there's unrest in Coerthas, and too many people who crave an understanding ear to their troubles.
Relationships: Foulques/Original Male Character
Series: Foulkhai Brainworms [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632967
Comments: 11
Kudos: 18





	1. Craven

**Author's Note:**

> Every day I bless Okamoza’s extensive quest youtube videos so I don’t have to open the game and play it out myself until I get the info I need.
> 
> Title comes from Half Alive's Tip Toes, which is a Foulques song I found by youtube autoplay chucking me through their entire discography for an hour, the only way I ever find music
> 
> Check out my Carrd for profiles on the characters:  
> https://sidequestdisorder.carrd.co/  
> In this story Astri Westknight is the Warrior of Light, and she'll be referenced every now and then. Khaishan has only done Gridanian quests, and any WoL-centric quests were done alongside Astri.

It’s been a long time since Khaishan has had to cover up a murder.

The mysterious crimes that led countless strangers to hunt down his mother did not extend to her children; after she died, life no longer became a struggle for survival. It was why Khaishan could bear to leave his brother to fend for himself long enough to get situated in Eorzea. They had plenty of time to heal. Despite the years he's spent distancing himself from his old life, though, he falls back into old habits effortlessly.

Khaishan feels a light-headed sort of neutrality as he lies to his guildmaster’s face. They’ll be following up on the initial call to arms soon, he thinks as Ywain expresses remorse for Foulques’ circumstances, _it’s good you made it,_ so on and so forth; the expected awkwardly delivered lines regurgitated by someone who isn’t familiar enough with a person to give their true condolences.

Imagine Foulques sticking around long enough to have a single sustained conversation with Ywain. It might have resolved a few things, though he doesn’t blame Foulques for his lack of willingness to try. Khaishan wouldn’t either, in his position. (Though he also wouldn’t pick fights with trainees.)

He’s entrusted with a request, as he often is, and then it’s the Shaded Bower. He could make a new mask in about twenty minutes, but he doesn’t want to force Foulques to wait — if he is in fact waiting — so he simply buys one.

“Why, Master Khaishan!”

Khaishan flinches at the voice, and turns to see the unassuming little lalafell standing in the awning of the Bower.

“…Alulu.”

“I finished your venture, sir! I’ve got…” She almost pulls out an eggplant, hesitates, then retrieves a wad of pigment that looks like well-chewed tobacco instead. “This.”

He takes it. Not the worst thing she’s given him. “That’s very kind, thank you. Well, I have to-”

“Oh, but I have money from all the work I did, you know. Don’t you want it?”

“I’ll ring for you later, so-”

“Oh, are you busy? Wrapping up that incident with the Lancer’s Guild?”

That was…quite literally ten minutes ago. “Ah, Informed as always, I see.”

“I ever strive to please, sir.” She sees the mask in his hand. “Oh, would you look at that. Is that for Foulques?”

—

The cloud cover has finally dissipated by the time Khaishan returns, allowing the lowering sun to radiate through the leaf canopy of the Twelveswood. By the time he reaches Alder Springs, the sky has finally broken into blue.

Wood Wailers have come to retrieve the bodies, and they frown at his approach. Most Wailers do; Gridania had experienced a flood of Auri in the chaos after the Calamity, and the hostility towards them in particular was heady. Khaishan had considered hedging his bets and moving to Limsa Lominsa before he was caught up in the Scions of the Seventh Dawn.

It takes Khaishan a moment, but upon closer examination, he sees a lot of corpses. He definitely hadn’t fought that many ashkin; there must have been more bodies than Khaishan had assumed, their brown and green armour hidden in the muck of heavy rains. Five dead men. Khaishan wonders if it was worth the trouble. Foulques could probably have gotten away with his latest bad decision if he had only escaped while he could.

But the euphoric, frantic honesty Foulques had shown told him that wasn’t an option at the time. He had seen an old enemy, among a throng of people who were no doubt ready to kill him, if Ywain’s gentle assurances that he could ‘do what you must’ was any indication. The whole matter is vile.

A Wailer looks at him sharply. “Forget something?”

“Sorry to be a bother, but I come as a witness. I'm not sure how much you can glean from the scuffle, their assailant didn’t make it.” He pulls out Foulques’ spear, which had been resting against his, and shows it off.

“Good riddance. Whoreson of a Grey was a sore on Gridania from the start,” another Wood Wailer spits.

“Well, it’s a good thing you won’t have to worry about that anymore, isn’t it?” Khaishan spins the spear just a little _too_ close for comfort to the wood wailer’s head, and sets it against his back again.

“…This isn’t a matter for outsiders. If you’re done…” The Wailer says, a little more uneasy now.

“I am. I have a request from Ywain to fulfill, and I’d like to be done with it by the day’s end.” Khaishan moves forward on his chocobo, only to have to stop again after a few yalms to wait for Alulu on her own little bird to realize they’re moving again.

He has no idea how she knew he’d be helping Foulques, though he isn’t surprised. She often came upon information much more specific than that, to the point it was a little unsettling. She has, however, spoken of Foulques with a casual disinterest before, often reporting on spotting him doing something stupid and insane like riding a giant antelope across the Upper Paths in an effort to slit its throat, or trying to catch fish with his bare hands even though that’s what spears were _originally designed to do_. He trusts her to be patient with him, if only out of complete disinterest in any of his crimes. He does _not_ trust her to not mention Foulques long enough to get Foulques out of the Twelveswood, though, so he has to keep an eye on her.

Besides, she has accrued more social capitol in one month than he has in three, and that’s _after_ some bold heroics. He’s not confident in his social skills, and he’d rather have someone else approach strangers on his behalf.

Bringing her along slows him down, though. Alulu cannot stop hopping off her chocobo to clamber onto a tree and hack off a sample. He probably should have considered that as a potential problem.

After completing a full circuit of Finder’s Bluff without any sign of Foulques, Khaishan sighs and begins heading back the way he came. They pass through the rocky overhang and the snarled trees embedded in them, roots snaking through the air like the tendrils of a Morbol, and Khaishan hears them creak. It’s all the warning he gets.

A figure drops from the sky and something lashes out at his head. Khaishan instinctively backhands it, at the side, like he usually does with a sudden sword attack. It’s not a sword, though, and the object shatters under the force of his strike.

A sharpened stick, from a dead tree, too brittle and gnarled to be effective as a spear. The figure is in a familiar cowl, wearing a familiar ceremonial mask.

Khaishan relaxes. “It’s good you’re well enough to think that would work.”

Foulques discards the makeshift weapon with a disgusted noise and steps back. _“Who the hell is that?”_

“My retainer,” Khaishan says smoothly. He feels bad for making Foulques uncomfortable, but gets the feeling that showing as much would only the anger the man more. “She’s nothing more than a botanist. If we’re to travel, I’d rather it be with someone who knows more about the lay of the land.”

“So you really intend to escort me like some little prince?“

“Are you still on this? I would have thought if you had the patience to wait for me, you’d have the patience to tolerate my presence for a day.” Khaishan takes the hot eel pies he had gotten from Mother Miounne from his bags.

“I’d rather hedge my bets on my own, th-” Foulques is interrupted by the food being shoved in his face.

“Eat. You must be tired.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Khaishan gives him a disappointed look. “It must have been time-consuming to enact your countless plots today. That aside, you used a _spectacular_ amount of aether in a short period of time. Eat.”

“I’m not going with you.”

“Well I’m not giving you your spear back until you do, sadly. I suppose you could buy one from Fallgourd Float…But…” The ‘T’ drags out daringly.

Alulu has dismounted to gather samples again. Foulques’ head is pointed at Khaishan, but its clear he’s glancing at her as she pries twigs off the muddy trees and chews on them experimentally.

“Is that _thing_ really coming along.”

“ _She_ knows what she’s doing, though it’s unfortunate she finds the local agriculture more engaging than a quick escape. I will allow the slow pace will be an annoyance.” Khaishan rummages through his bag again, and retrieves the mask. “Would you please…?”

Foulques wordlessly snatches it out of Khaishan’s hand and switches the two masks. The ceremonial mask is chucked into a mud puddle. Alulu takes time from collecting her bundle of twigs to retrieve it.

“I won’t need escorting after we leave. I’m capable of taking care of myself,” he grinds out.

Khaishan just hums. “Then…which direction shall we head in?”

“Coerthas. It’s scant more than an hour away.”

“Noted.” He isn’t excited with the choice; it’s only been around twenty years since Ishgard slaughtered Auri on sight. The way Khaishan hears it, it wasn’t until the Ixali conflict became unavoidable that it was finally accepted that they resembled these feathered beastmen far more than any dragon, from the shapes of their bodies, to the their horns, to the quills and downy feathers embedded in their hair. But that only resolved the fear of a Dravanian threat; irrational biases can’t be unlearned with simple logic.

He doesn’t let the trepidation show. Foulques mounts his rented chocobo and lifts his mask to rip into his eel pie. His head is angled just enough to allow for a glance at his spear, which rests against Khaishan’s back, where it shall remain until such a time they are attacked or they part ways.

Alulu seems to have not been chewing the stick simply for experiment’s sake; she has continued nibbling on it, and when she catches Foulques turned to her for a period of time (likely to glare at her), she tears a strip off and offers it to him. He snarls at her like an animal. Alulu offers the strip to Khaishan, who takes it. It tastes like vanilla, and becomes more elastic as its grinded under his teeth.

The snapping beaks of Ziz are enough to keep them at a brisk pace. They fall in line with a merchant caravan also headed to Coerthas, and Khaishan swaps his lance out for a bow. He doesn’t miss how Foulques’ head snaps to look at him as he does so.

“My bowmanship is rudimentary,” Khaishan admits, “but the point is to shake of monsters, not slay them.”

“Any other hidden skills you want to share?”

“I’m good at tailoring, and leatherwork. I’ve picked up carpentry, recently.” Khaishan pauses, and notes, “I know how to cook.”

Foulques scoffs. “I’m sure you’ll make a lovely housewife.”

Khaishan lets loose an arrow that hobbles a Ziz straying too close long enough for them to pass by it safely. “Surely you’ve had to hem your own clothes and make your own food?”

“I never had the luxury of learning. Many Duskwight would fair better if only they had a few trades to their name,” Foulques returns acerbically.

It’s true; Gridania is not a friendly place, and the tradesmen he's tried to form a companionship with - leatherworkers especially - gave the impression that they would like nothing better than to spit on him every time he passes. Silvairre of the Archer's Guild has made it clear that he would like nothing better than to plan an 'accidental' death. Even on a governmental level- It took _days_ to negotiate the retainer contract for his own brother, especially insulting considering the few minutes Alulu’s contract took. Khaishan had already gained the position of Kan-E-Senna’s envoy to back him; he’d have to be the Primalkiller herself if he wanted truly equal treatment. What hope did an Ala Mhigan or a Duskwight have, with that kind of pressure?

Their own home is a suffocating place to be. It’s possible neither of them will ever find a place that accepts them completely.

—

The ice aether hits Khaishan before the temperature drop. He may not be able to truly commune with them, but he can feel the Elemental’s touch regardless, drifting close to the edges; fussing over the imbalance, he thinks. They’re weak, a ghostly touch, so gentle on his senses that it feels strange to think that before Dalamud fell, they were a deadly force to be reckoned with.

Foulques avoids looking at the small outpost standing at the mouth of Coerthas, even fully disguised. Khaishan makes eye contact with the Wailers there and nods pleasantly. They consider him and the caravan they’re traveling with, and then go about their business.

Alulu can no longer contain herself, and begins to babble, oblivious to the tension in the air. “Fufucha says the trees of Coerthas have a splendid quality to them. The destabilization of the aether barely affected their growth _or_ quality! The logging trade could go on just as usual, you know, which is a good thing for a region as devastated as Coerthas was. There are these gorgeous trees that need you to wait for just the right time, when the frost has set in but the top layer’s melted a bit, and the tree will just snap off when you fell it, perfect circle. Oh, I want to see it!”

“I don’t have nearly the skill required to pull off a trick like that, but if you think you can, you’re free to,” Khaishan sighs.

“Much obliged, sir!”

They reach the end of the Twelveswood, where the Elementals no longer bear the brunt of the aether’s disruptions, and the cold truly sets in. It bites at his fingers, harsh and unforgiving; he hadn’t thought to cover them. It isn’t snowing, at least. He pulls back behind the caravan, which slowly makes its way East.

“How much do we have to travel to reach Mor Dhona?” Khaishan asks Alulu. He doesn’t want to be here any longer than he strictly has to, but he does actually have business here.

“Oh, the road’s right in Boulder Downs. Nothing more than the dark face of the mountain range!” Alulu retrieves a map, and shows it off. Sure enough, the road to Revenant’s Toll is no further from the entrance than the Observatorium is, and are in fact placed in opposite directions.

The dissatisfaction must have shown on Khaishan’s face, because Foulques snipes “sad there will be no prison cells for me?”

“Ishgard isn’t part of the Alliance, they can’t charge you,” Khaishan says idly, still occupied with the map. “Ywain had sent me out to assist an Ishgardian friend of his. I had thought I could help him on our way past, but I see now that’s not possible.”

“I could have told you that.”

Khaishan scowls. “If you knew the layout of the Highlands, it would have been nice to hear it. I’ve expected Alulu to be eclectic in the information she deigns to give, but this concerns _your_ safety.”

“My safety is no concern of yours.”

“Well it clearly is, because I’ve been _extremely_ concerned!” Khaishan returns waspishly. Foulques stares at him, not visibly moving, but definitely seething behind that mask. After staring at each other long enough for the caravan to vanish behind the hill, Khaishan lets the tension seep out of him.

…Perhaps he’s right. He’s being overbearing.

He takes Foulques’ spear from his back and tosses it over. Foulques staggers a bit, clearly not expecting it. Khaishan turns his chocobo eastward. “…You’re right. I’m sorry. I trust you can reach Revenant’s Toll without much effort? I’ll join you by tonight, but I have some affairs to take care of. Do you have money?”

Foulques is quiet, stiff and hunched over his rental chocobo. Khaishan guesses ‘probably not’.

He takes a few unsold Allagan pieces from his purse and presses them into Foulques’ hand. “Please, be sure to eat.”

Foulques’ silence persists. His shoulders are drawn. Khaishan kicks off, prompting Alulu to try to catch up with the caravan.

“Do you even know who this friend is?" Foulques says, just a little too quickly.

Khaishan's mouth twitches. "Ywain's friend from Ishgard; he has a vested interest in the techniques of outsiders. I was sorry to disappoint when he asked about the techniques of those from the Steppe."

Foulques doesn't take the lure, or even acknowledge it beyond a scoff. "Dabbling beyond his means."

"I would hope not, but I see there's no convincing you to be optimistic," Khaishan sighs. "I have no say in what you do now, but do take care of yourself."

"If you know that then-" Foulques hangs on that, long enough the silence becomes uncomfortable. He backs up the bird, and shakes his head. "Then...Spare me your moralizing messiah complex. You've been nothing but presumptuous since you came back."

Khaishan only spares him a smile of polite disinterest, and turns to continue after the caravan, leaving Foulques to stare after him.

The fact his voice cracked a little when saying the words _'came back'_ remains unspoken.


	2. Small

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foulques and Khaishan practice social distancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: If you read the first chapter within a week of posting go back, I changed the ending. I initially thought I needed to force them to stay together, but then I realized...they really would part. And then I closed my browser mid-edit without realizing. And let it sit unchanged for a few days. I'm great at posting fanfiction on the internet. Unparalleled skill

_It doesn't feel good._

Foulques had been interrupted in the middle of having the thought, in the North Shroud, but it had struck him so vividly. It did not feel good to see the face of his traitorous old companion so unexpectedly, and slay him in a mad scramble rather than a duel, or an assassination. It felt as if he had been blinded to his entire past in that moment, and then it was done with, all their bodies lying together, the corpse of the man that he had loathed for years looking no different than any of the bodies that laid around him.

His head is a fog. Not only was he deprived the satisfaction of his kill, more than half the remaining members of his old _'friends'_ are still in the Twelveswood. Stupid of him to lash out so early, but the moment was a blur, and his heart had gone weak at just the sight-

It's enough to concede he's made a mistake. He understands now that attacking whatever needs to be attacked isn't enough to steel himself, and surely he's _close,_ but he's been given no alternative. Of course, Khaishan won't spare any context on the source of _his_ willpower. He's alluded to something, to be sure, but he doesn't seem to think it's important enough to share. It's obviously not a lesson he learned from the Lancer's guild; even before he began classes, Khaishan had a firmness to him the other recruits lacked.

Foulques _must_ be close to it, of course; he knew from the second he laid eyes on Khaishan that they were kindred spirits, that they had a sense of connection deeper than just fellow lancemen. Foulques thought he had to guide Khaishan's hand into finding the source of his strength, but no, that wasn't it, not when Khaishan is like…like _that_ , and still leveled him, embarrassed him so thoroughly-

Even now, he can feel the ghost of the metal against his throat. They're the same height, yet he can vividly remember how much the man loomed, his figure blotting out the sky. The dread was suffocating. The way he came for him, unflinching, brow furrowed and gaze unfocused, like the fact he was effortlessly crushing Foulques was the least of the things on his mind.

He's held that attitude this entire time, behaving as if Foulques isn't a threat. Anything he does is discarded like it's _nothing,_ all of it so inconsequential he doesn't even need his lance to swat Foulques away like a pesky fly. Pinning him down, protecting him, looking after him like he's a child that needs minding-

He feels so small.

The bite of aether rouses him the moment he hits it. Though he's never been sensitive to aether, the negative charge of Mor Dhona's gloom is like a slap to the face. He can even see it, oozing off the earth like sunlight through waves, as vivid as the aura from a conjurer pushing corrupted sprites into open air. Noxious.

The chocobo is getting antsy, no doubt preparing to shake him off in time for his rental period concluding. He dismounts, and it immediately beelines for the nearest chocobo station. He turns to overlook the settlement.

It's big, at least, much bigger than he thought it would be, considering how they had to build it on another section of empty wasteland in the span of five years. In the violet glow of the atmosphere he can see fabric hung from the massive stone structures, all visibly older than the community it surrounds. The cobbled streets stretch down a slope, while every inch of even ground has a stall on it, most of which selling items adventurers hunted. He likes it, actually, a city built on the back of those who came only to test their own mettle, though he doubts killing anything in Mor Dhona would hold a candle to the satisfaction of maintaining the balance of the forest. There is nothing to nurture in this hellhole.

Again, a fresh wave of irritation that he'd been so careless, that even that was taken from him. He could have fell in with the usual vagabonds, but the idea of having to clean up after those idiots soured him on the idea. Presumptuous criminals, thinking that because the Elementals no longer raged, they're free to do as they please. Foulques hopes the whole lot gets blasted to smithereens.

The problems that would come with returning, though... How is he meant to execute on his plans from this distance? There's an outpost at the entrance, and if they find out he's back, not only will they clamp down on the roads, but it'd interfere with Khaishan's business.

Not that he cares about Khaishan's business. The man's made it clear he has no interest in Foulques, and the only thing keeping him close was a misplaced sense of duty.

His muscles all tense, a feeling familiar to him by now, and he stretches on his way down. No signposts, but there's an aetheryte and a bar. It's been a long time since he's attuned to an aetheryte, and he does so out of more novelty than necessity. It makes his fingers prickle, and leaves a numb sensation as he pulls away. Nostalgic, almost. He remembers first setting out as a fresh new recruit, the wood of his lance unfamiliar in his hands, unsure of how to attack anything bigger than a squirrel, traveling with passing groups to reach aetherytes that would take years to be affordable to teleport to. Hoping to prove himself someday.

Idiot.

The bar is quiet and sedate, though full of adventurers who look at him appraisingly. A mysterious stranger in a cloak and mask, yet just the spear is enough to tell them what he's here for.

He doesn't know what he's going to do from now on, but in the very least, he wants to be able to have something to eat. He no longer has the luxury of Miounne's eel pies, now.

—

As it turns out, Ywain's friend is another Hyur, as mild and stalwart as Ywain himself. He would like Khaishan to investigate and follow up on leads on the thief who took Ishgard's precious relic. Khaishan expected Alulu to take off to see the botanist stationed in Skyfire Locks, so close to the Observatorium he needn't worry for her safety, but she expresses surprising self-discipline by actually helping him with the investigation. He pays her a Venture coin for her trouble.

The climate is not friendly. Anyone he makes eye contact views him with naked contempt, some with outright loathing, a scenario he's been through many times before, but never with this kind of edge. Finding the right person requires careful observation, because it's clear most of these people would rather die than concede anything to him.

To be honest, the feeling is mutual; Ishgard's affairs mean nothing to him, and the Scions need his assistance far more than these people do. Still, he can tell they are run ragged and low on resources, and Alberic's investment seems personal. His efforts are half-hearted, but an effort all the same.

The sentry on duty seems to find his involvement as inexplicable as he does, but still points him back to familiar territory; the outpost they had passed coming in. He whistles for Juniper, who stretches her wings and pads out of the chocobo stables with a shake of her head. Alulu is scampering through the window of one of the buildings, so he doesn't bother saying goodbye.

Leaving Coerthas feels as strange as entering it, akin to walking in a warm building during winter, but on a level much deeper than just temperature. It feels _controlled_ in the Twelveswood, to an intensity he took for granted even in areas that had a harder time recovering.

No luck with the outpost, however. They've seen no sign of unaccounted-for travellers besides Khaishan himself, let alone this mysterious Estinien character.

Going back into Coerthas is even more unnerving than the first time, now that he's aware of the contrast in its entirety. The merchant he traveled with back when he first came to Eorzea had made a glib comment that he would overcome his aethersickness in due time, but his headaches remained constant, and one builds in his temples in response to his wariness. _  
_

He has to stop his return entirely when Juniper almost slips on a hidden patch of ice. She skids, and he dismounts the poor chocobo to steady her and avoid being thrown to the ground. He instantly feels how much of a mess of corruption lies underneath his shoes, like frost settling deep in his bones, so clear in its aberration that he barely has try to yank it into open air, and definitely does not stop to think if it's a good idea.

The corrupted ice sprite shrieks in splintered glass, releasing a wave of gloom that knocks him back with its intensity. The haze is intense enough to triple his headache in seconds. He staggers back, wheezing, and the Aero he casts doesn't take well against an ice aspected enemy. He wishes he had some gift for thaumaturgy, but in the meantime he makes do with Stone. The sprite doesn't hold back, battering him with shards of ice, spreading rings of frost along his clothes, scalding his lungs when he breathes. His injuries build rapidly even as he tries to heal himself, and he has to fall back to let Juniper fight on his behalf just so he can have a moment to settle and control his mana with lucid dreaming.

Combined pecking and battering finally breaks the sprite down, and Khaishan collapses to the ground along with it, covered in cuts and bruises he doesn't have it in him to heal.

Awful. He's a decent enough Conjurer, too. Even if it was unwise to unearth the sprite unprepared, he wasn't expecting it to be so aggressive. How long would it take to reclaim even just Boulder Downs with sprites this voracious? Hearers might do a better job by beseeching the Elementals directly, but the only one Khaishan is familiar with is still just a child, and he certainly isn't one himself. Even then, the Elementals aren't as strong outside the Shroud, and they've had their powers stripped on top of that. The enormity of the Calamity is haunting.

He sticks to the road, which bears no sprites at the moment. By the time he returns to the gates, he can't feel his fingers, and he's dizzy to the point he doesn't trust himself to walk without leaning on Juniper.

He isn't greeted kindly, of course. The guard at the gate leers at him. "Using your heathen powers to poison our lands?"

"'Tis a blessing as unrelated to Nophica as it is to Halone, ser," Khaishan says as magnanimously as he can muster. It isn't enough, of course.

"Keep Her name from your mouth, _outsider_ ," the Elezen snaps, so full of hatred that it makes Khaishan flinch.

He doesn't argue. He's long since learned it won't end well for him if he does.

Khaishan doesn't have the energy to follow up on other people's problems, and instead collapses into a barstool at the tavern, the occupants of which react with blessed neutrality to his presence.

The barwoman looks downright friendly. "Would you care for a drink?"

"Whatever might warm me. Do you have beds here?" Khaishan asks.

"Only a few. We don't usually get…" She trails off, clearly not wanting to be impolite.

"Those not employed by the Holy See," He finishes for her.

She nods, grateful. "You've good timing. The beds are all free this afternoon. When they're full, the merchants have to sleep in the igloos."

A horrible, horrible place.

Khaishan is exhausted, so even though it's midday, he drags himself upstairs and throws himself on the nearest bed he can find to sleep it off. He hadn't rested from his fight with Foulques only hours before, and then the cold, and the sprite, and the _stress_ …he hasn't overextended himself this much since the Tam-Tara Deepcroft, and he was under the protection of a woman who proceeded to kill a primal barely a week later. He should be meditating before doing rapid casts, he knows, but it's difficult to remember that in the middle of battle. What an idiot he must look like, in comparison with the adventurers fighting their way up through the snowbanks. Getting flattened by a _sprite._

He didn't have to fight on the Azim Steppe; that was the job of his mother, his brother. They knew how to deal with people who wanted to fight for slaughter rather than sport. They wouldn't even let him fight in duels; three people isn't enough for a tribe in the hierarchies of the Steppe, and losing a caretaker to so much as a broken arm would be devastating.

Now he feels like he did as a boy, relying only on the outline of his brother's lancework, powerless to stop the world around him. How is he to scale each threat he comes across, when Eorzea is still so scarred by war and calamity? Even corrupted sprites could be enough to kill him if he isn't careful. Not even Hydaelyn's gifts can assuage his helplessness.

He feels so small.

Khaishan will sleep for an hour. Then he'll return to helping Alberic with that thief of his.


	3. Frustration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no idea where I was going nothing was as planned I was just like wheeeeee I type the words the characters do the things
> 
> The fic is illustrated now! Sometimes I have really strong visual layouts in my head and I like to draw them....makes me happy...I went back and added illustrations to the other chapters too.

Khaishan wakes to arguing, which isn't encouraging.

A glance out the window tells him the daylight is still going strong; he hasn't overslept, at least. When he outstretches his hand, it still shakes, but he can clench it firmly. Some of his strength has returned.

Rather than donning his things, he rummages through them to find a bottle of ether, and tips back the entire bottle. The alchemical formula is the only direct shot of aether he's ever been able to stomach, and he feels like himself again barely a minute later. That was all he needed; a nap for his body, a tincture for his spirit.

The shouting that roused him is coming from outside. He packs up and steps out into the frigid air to find the source of the altercation. There's a small group at the foot of the stairs, and he winces when he sees who they're all looming over.

The group is comprised of very angry knights, who are shouting at poor Ser Alberic. The man looks like he's at the end of his rope. After a few seconds of accusations, Khaishan gets the ghist of the situation; they think he's invited a heretic into their midst.

"It's been twenty years since you held the title of the Azure Dragoon! Don't think you're above prosecution!" A knight declares.

"I will not be honouring your baseless theorycrafting with a response. What will you tell an inquisitor? That you've got a _bad feeling?_ " Alberic replies with exasperation.

Khaishan takes pity on him and calls out. "Is there a problem?"

"The lalafell. She's yours, isn't she?" Alberic calls back.

He's been thrown to the wolves. All the knights turn on him as one. "Of course the outsiders would be _consorting_ with _heretics_."

"Sorry? What has she done?"

"Asking around about the Azure Dragoon, _questioning_ the Holy See, asking us all about the Eye! We all know the Heretics have been seeking it to offer to their Dravanian masters!"

Khaishan tilts his head slowly. Alberic had wanted to keep his identity and the mission a secret, likely to prevent this very argument from taking place. He doesn't know how much they've gleaned from Alulu's drilling, so he plays it safe. "Sorry, am I meant to believe a lalafell botanist can brave the knights of Ishgard in combat so that she might deliver a priceless relic to a bunch of dragon worshippers in a country she's never stepped foot in?"

The group instantly loses its tension, though the two at the forefront still look annoyed. "It's the information she has we're concerned with," says one.

"Ahhh. From what I see, she must have discovered the level of political unrest in the wave of fresh heretic attacks, and began nagging everyone into madness trying to learn more." Khaishan descends the stairs, spine held straight. "I would hope the knights stationed here aren't so bored as to mistake annoyance for heresy?"

"If not heresy, stupidity. This is why outsiders have no place here! She'll be blabbing everything by next morn, and breaking bread with heretics the morn after that!" The tallest knight shouts.

Khaishan doesn't bother entertaining that with a response. He nods to Alberic. "Do you know where she's gone?"

"East. It seems she divined some sort of favourable information from nothing but the complaints of the knights. Quiet bold of her, I must admit."

Khaishan winces. If only she had woken him…

"Thank you, I'll see if I can't catch up with her. Wouldn't want her…what was it, you said?" He spares the knights a sidelong look. " _'Breaking bread with heretics'?_ "

The tallest of the knights steps up. "It's easy to dismiss our worries as paranoid hand-wringing from an outside perspective, but the heretics _have_ been getting more aggressive. They've begun using strange glamours. I don't know if you've seen the aevis crawling all over the highlands, but those are no born-and-bred dragons. _All_ of them are heretics, using ritual magicks to take on the power of their masters. They're desperate for a way to finally break into Ishard."

"Then let's hope I catch up with her before poor, poor Estinien gets killed and eaten by heretical glamour dragons and my retainer arrives to tell them everything they already know. I've had enough of this." He turns on his heel and heads through the archway under the stairs to the chocobo stables to retrieve Juniper, and rides her out the gate, ignoring the disgruntled murmurings he leaves behind.

His irritations burns as soon as he has his privacy. Alberic had asked Ywain for a skilled lancer; he's probably meant to fight this mystery man, even though the power behind all that aether must be unimaginable. Even if he wasn't using the Eye, Khaishan doesn't have the time or the stamina for combat at the moment. As tragic as the thievery must be, he's resolved himself to go and tell Alberic he's not interested in helping, and tell Ywain he's bungled this case quite badly, couldn't be helped, best find someone else. The idea he might have put Alulu in danger by letting her help doesn't bear thinking about.

The immediate east, according to the signpost, is Griffin Crossing; some sort of bridge, clearly, though Khaishan has no familiarity with Coerthan history or geography. It doesn't seem like the place for a criminal on the run to go, though. This place is full of mountains, and in Khaishan's experience, if ever a situation becomes too much to bear, climbing a mountain is the first thing one should do. He can't imagine living around a bunch of mountains and not believing that.

There's no path upwards, but there's an open tunnel in clear view just off the path. He kicks Juniper into a trot, and comes upon armed ixali arguing about bladders just inside the entrance. Air bladders, Khaishan assumes. They must be building airships in the area.

Their discussion is heated, and he rides around behind one of them while the other is trying to impart the importance of caution while gutting karakuls. There's another corpse just off to the side, looking as if it were mauled by a hungry wolf; it seems the first ixal's attempt at extracting materials from it had ended in tremendous failure.

Seeing another handful of ixali prompts Khaishan to dismount to prepare for a melee, but they seem unwilling to fight, beyond squawks of outrage that he'd come here. The nearest swipes at him with a sword when he tries stepping into the open air, but Khaishan only has to say _{{I'm not here for you}}_ in their native tongue to stop any more from coming closer. They resort to screeching to each other about wasting their time on him. One throws their spear at him and cusses quite colourfully, but Khaishan's attentions are already elsewhere.

  


This is the thief Estinien, Khaishan knows. It is not something he assumes by any contextual clues he might glean from seeing such a strangely dressed elezen here of all places, but something he feels the moment he beheld him; the dark-armoured man is is filled to bursting with raw aether, so vile Khaishan might expect it to be corrupted. The sharp edge of its locus is almost… _feathered_ across the equally aether-burned armour. It is choking and hateful, and only Khaishan's earlier failure to deal with an aetheric disturbance keeps him from trying to flush it out on instinct. The man's face is hidden under a beaked visor, but the naked contempt is clear.

The hideous aether clinging to Estinien's body roils, as if in response to being observed. It isn't simply its presence that violates Khaishan's senses, now, but the fact it calls to him like a threat; a desire to fill him and consume him and break apart all that he is. It calls on his grief, which could not possibly match its own; to his anger, against which was a rage that nothing he could ever feel could compare. It is a _thinking_ thing that knows he is a small and wretched creature, for what little commonality they have. How easily he could be consumed. Used up. Filled with power that could course through him so thoroughly that his existence could not possibly bear it.

Khaishan cannot help himself. He vomits. Quite spectacularly.

He can hear a faint voice, and it takes him a moment of reeling terror to realize it is the man underneath the aether speaking. "The eye…it calls to you."

Only once, apparently; the feeling of being picked apart by a cruel gaze fades, at least enough that he can gather his wits. He wastes no time with his outrage. "What in heaven's name are you _wearing?_ Is that what the Eye is? Release that wretched artifact back into the hands of in the very least someone _else_ at once! I can't imagine lugging around such a hateful thing will do you any use!"

The man looks taken aback, but still has an answer ready. "'Tis the greatest weapon one could have in these times."

"Well the weapon certainly isn't pleased about it." Khaishan stands and spares a look over his shoulder; it seems the reason the ixali were bickering about whether or not to kill him was because none of them wanted to be near Estinien.

"You can feel that much?" Asks Estinien. A bit too smugly for Khaishan's liking.

"If aetheric sensitivity could be considered _'prodigious'_ , I would be something of a wunderkind. I've been told more than once that it is a miracle that a teleport does not strike me dead where I stand. Or float, rather. A gross misunderstanding, but not an unfounded one." He dusts snow off himself and avoids looking at Estinien directly.

"Ah. So it isn't a failure of will leaving you crumpled in the snow."

Khaishan swallows the urge to tell him to shut up, and looks around again. Estinien is here, and Alulu headed east…"I've no true quarrel with you at the moment; I'm looking for my retainer. A dunesfolk Lalafell girl, about my age, interested to a fault in botany."

Estinien gives him a long look. His face is unreadable with that mask, and the dark, sharply edged snarl of his armour paints an unfriendly picture. After a moment, though, he looks down in the direction he had been facing when Khaishan first arrived, and Khaishan approaches to see what it is.

At the bottom of the cliff is a hole drilled into at least ten fulms of snow. While it's hard to see, there is clearly a figure at the bottom of it, making erratic, stuttering movements. Khaishan wastes no time skidding down the corner to investigate. He has to sidle along the wall to avoid making an approach any more of a pain than it has to be, and when he's directly across, he braves a little wading. The snow compacted enough that he only sinks to his shins, thankfully. Now that he's this close, it's easy to see the head of dark hair and the reason behind the stuttering movements; a lalafell awkwardly shoveling through long-frozen earth.

"I suppose I should be grateful you didn't press the matter, but Ser Alberic was seeking discretion," Khaishan tells Alulu.

She looks up at him with her best doe eyes. "Oh, but sir, I simply _had_ to put in the work to match your coin! Of course, they didn't appreciate my most professional of capacities and quickly drove me out, but I've got so much information to bring you! You see, Estinien would of course be the _Azure Dragoon,_ which is a dragoon knight superior of some sort, who would actually be _entitled_ to the Eye, so long as he's in the trust of the Holy See, which he _isn't_ , of course, that's why he's thieving. So I ask, where's this lad from? And they say to me that he's from Ferndale — long gone and in the Western Highlands, so little use to me, but put a pin in that one — but I'm hearing from Ser Alberic he's traveling huge distances without being seen or tracked by even the stars, and of course, if he's traveling without being tracked _and_ he's the Azure Dragoon he'd obviously be making use of the Crossing and the terrain, but of course this area is teeming with people so he'd _have_ to-"

Quite a lot of context to digest all at once, but it doesn't address the main issue. "They started a hate mob, Alulu. If Alberic weren't already in the streets, they would drag him out."

She deflates. "I'm sorry. I didn't know Ser Estinien was important enough that bringing him up more than once would get so many people so bothered."

"It's…well, I'm sure I can speak to Ser Alberic about it. Now, what is it you're doing down there?" He cranes his neck to see what she's digging. She's obtained a small pile of…something.

"Oh, this? Well, normally I can sneak on by just about anyone, except of course those who know to look, and our Ser Estinien's a bit cagey, so I make this little noise — and I make plenty of noise normally, sir, so this is definitely a special case — and he just picks me up by his speartip quick as can be! So of _course_ I give a very detailed account of my profession, and I remember just then his exact hometown of Ferndale, and the kind of crops that we don't get exports of in Ul'dah, making them instantly outstanding enough to look into, and if you observe closely—" She climbs out of her pit to gesture farther east, to a slight mound of snow. "—I remember enough about such crops to know that little mountain cols like these are prime territory for a lovely cousin to the magma beet! Its proximity to old griffin haunting grounds and ixali burrowing here so often makes it an assurance! Of course, you might think anything that once grew here extinct, with how long the griffins have been gone and of _course_ this coating of ice, but they're quite hardy, I assure you! In fact, these bulbs will go into a dormant state when chilled. Now, they're not as sweet as the pride of Ishgardian cuisine, but you'll find their survivability quite stunning. Even a cockroach could not hope to match them!"

"You…hope to bribe him with childhood cuisine?"

"He's not very sociable," Alulu says mildly.

"Then why approach him at all? You should have roused me the moment you had made any leeway! Forget ruining the privacy of the case, what if you were hurt?"

She collects all her beets. They're small and dark red, much different than the kinds Khaishan has seen. "I may have…put quite a lot of stock into accounts that Ser Estinien was an honoured and honour-bound knight…"

"Unbelievable. Well, I'm in no condition to have dispute with the man; I will have to ask Ywain to look for a better lancer to meddle in foreign politics." He plucks her out of the hole, beets and all, and squeezes her tight. It's tricky with so little firm ground, but he manages to find just enough clear stone to leap back up top.

Estinien steps back in naked shock at his sudden ascent. Alulu is dropped, and she immediately sets to tending to the pot sitting on a firepit reduced to embers.

"What did I _just_ say?" Khaishan sighs.

"I want him to help me learn how to cook the beets." Alulu says quietly.

"They're beets. Figure it out," says Estinien.

She makes a face like she wants to argue, but the man is already back to staring at Khaishan. "Who trained you."

"…Sorry, in what?"

"That leap was not the technique of an ordinary lancer."

Khaishan tilts his head slowly. "I would…think not, considering it has little to do with lancing? Learning how to do that is just a part of coming of age for mountain tribes. My mother taught me how to do it when we had to walk along an arete for a week."

Estinien's already thin lips are drawn into an even thinner line. "Hmm. A natural savant, are you?"

"I'm sure it must amuse you to play coy, but I won't be following up on your affairs. I'm exhausted with this whole business, and Ser Alberic will be well glad to be rid of me after the noise we've made assisting him. You're free to— oh Alulu, don't start making stew, _please,_ I'm sure Foulques is going to be in a strop if I don't get to Revenant's Toll by tonight."

She gives him a dubious look. "You're really going? I'm not sure if you keep up with astrology — I didn't either until just today, in fact — but with the Dragon Star's resurgence, the gloom over Mor Dhona is constant. You won't be able to get in until the dead of night, if the skywatch has the right of it."

"Oh, I— I didn't…" He presses his fingers against his mouth, the gravity of missing such an obvious problem hitting him. Of course he wouldn't be able to enter during glooms. They're notorious among the conjurers of his guild, he knows what they're like. He also knows Foulques values Khaishan's opinions greatly, and in the very least craves an empathetic ear. He may rant about wanting to go their separate ways, but he's in a miserable state at the moment, and would fare far better if he's sent off on more amicable terms.

He makes his decision. "Alulu, you'll have to go in my stead. I think a care package might help for a start, and if you can ask him where his house is — oh my goodness do _not_ put the entire beet in the water!"

Alulu, as fascinated with the _growing_ of vegetables as she is, clearly has little experience preparing foreign foods. Khaishan, while not a culinarian by any means, has spent more than half his life as a homemaker. He's forced to take over with peeling and dicing the beets, then onions and garlic.

"It'll be watery and flat without vegetable stock… Outposts in Coerthas would be relying on meat and bread and using their peels for compost, especially for their chocobo feed. There's plenty of fertile land in the Black Shroud, but going all the way there…" He taps the keratin on his chin. "I've money to spare. If I could convince a cook to part with just a little stock..."

"We could just buy dinner if we do that," Alulu pouts.

"Wouldn't want to waste your hard work obtaining your _bribe_." Speaking of which, Khaishan looks over his shoulder at Estinien, who is leaning against the rock wall with his arms folded. Beside him, inside the small tunnel, the two ixali who were previously arguing are crouched and staring at Khaishan's diced vegetables in rapt attention.

Khaishan nods to Estinien first. "We're just making soup. You can leave if you'd like."

"Not going to report back to Alberic?"

"I think he'd prefer I fight you, so I'd rather not. Do as you wish." Then, to the ixal, _{{Might you be hungry?}}_

 _{{Speak the tongue, do you?}}_ The teacher of the two snaps, glancing back and forth between him and the perpetual threat of Estinien.

 _{{Because I help the shipwrights of Bentbranch. I have a gift. Languages learned quickly.}}_ Both figuratively and literally. His skill with languages has always been strong. Despite having the Echo translate for her, it seems the second coming of the Warrior of Light finds manually learning them difficult. Not that he boasts perfect fluency, of course; the further north one goes, the more ixali language uses beak-clacking as a consonant, which Khaishan is doing by tapping his teeth together, making his accent a bit lispy. He's sure it's not very convincing to them.

 _{{Ehcatl!}}_ The student yelps in realization. _{{Traitors to Garuda!}}_

The other one slaps him on the arm in a panic when Estinien shifts.

Khaishan pokes the dying embers of the fire in telegraphed disinterest _. {{Learning to fly makes a traitor? All who fly learn the winds. Elsewhere, at least. In these lands, Garuda_ _'s blessing is very valuable. But why not both? You can build ships that fly on their own power and blessed balloons, can't you? The Ehcatl say 'we wish to reach the ancestral home!', and they cannot ask for Garuda. She asks you to destroy your enemies, it is very important to conquer low air. She will not give her blessing when there are still enemies. Yet you will not have a company for air travel while you are busy fighting. Very strange.}}_

_{{We already know how to make balloons!}}_

_{{Ehcatl know how to make lovely ships. They do not need to waste Garuda_ _'s power, which she gives to your warballoons and your warriors. Yet cast out! Airships only meant for war now? Ridiculous to me.}}_

_{{What do you know? Featherless heathen!}}_

_{{Ah, what do you know? I have feathers.}}_

The student gasps and runs right at him. Estinien puts his hand on his spear, but doesn't look too excited to save Khaishan from immanent threat. Not that he'd need to; all the ixali does is grab him by the horns and thumb through his hair.

 _{{Downy and bristle!}}_ The student shrieks.

An ixali pops their head up from the edge of the cliff where they had presumably been gathering beets. _{{I've been telling you! I've been telling you all these shorthorn men very comely! You think I say this for the sake of fetish? No! None of you understood! They are children of Garuda, I told you they were!}}_

 _{{Don't act like it was obvious! You see shorthorn ladies? So tiny! Like littlefolk and longnecks, yet they're the same species! Why would we think they're feathered!}}_ The student hisses.

 _{{Because you're blind. That's why you can't cut hides,}}_ the observer chortles.

The ixali shrieks and attacks his companion next. Khaishan glances up at Estinien, who is blank as usual, but still watching the ixali carefully. When he realizes he's being stared at, he huffs and pulls away from the wall.

"If I wanted to see a bunch of zealots bicker, I'd stay home."

With that, he leaps into the sky, vanishing beyond the peak of the small mountain. After a moment, Khaishan sees his silhouette leap again in the direction of Griffin Crossing.

 _{{He's left! Kill the shorthorn!}}_ A new ixali screeches.

 _{{Wait,}}_ says the teacher, slowly standing upright. They're visibly taller than Khaishan even from his sitting position, if only by a sparse few ilms. _{{What are you doing with those remo'tta?}}_

"Remo'tta?" Khaishan repeats hesitantly. It's not a word he's heard in either dialect. He looks down at his rock full of chopped vegetables. "…The beets?"

 _{{Yes._ Bheedts _. What are you doing with your_ bheedts _?}}_

Khaishan smiles serenely. _{{Would you like me to show you?}}_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ixali Beast Tribe Quests....2! Was going to be Estinien Picnic but the chapter was getting too long.
> 
> I once saw a headcanon post that noted the anime hair is, well...birdlike...and considering their bodies look so similar to ixals from overall shape to the presence of horns, the hairstyles probably stand up like that because they're supported by actual quills. Feathered Auri are REAL


	4. A Good Meal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Estinien picnic.

The residents of the Observatorium are no happier to see Khaishan return than they were when he left. He doesn't mind them and simply trots Juniper to the stables, keeping an eye out for Alberic, who isn't in his place by the plaza firepit. Khaishan hopes that the knights didn't return to haranguing him as soon as he left.

Well, he's not here for Alberic. Here's here for soup. He didn't see a kitchen in the tavern, which means the other place of rest is…Indeed, a cafeteria! He's in luck. Khaishan ducks inside and makes a beeline for the cook. "Beg pardon, but could you spare some vegetable scraps for a few coin?"

The cook looks at him disapprovingly. "Scraps? We don't even have that much. Been using karakul shite to fertilize the fields."

"Surely, then, for the sake of, er…'Ishgardian cuisine', you would have vegetable stock shipped in? The Black Shroud is close, yes?"

"To have stock more at hand than vegetable scraps…" The cook reaches down to a box and fishes out a flask made from cheap wood. "Double and you'll have it."

He has it, though not without some injury to his wallet. It was a neutral interaction, and he thinks he might be able to get away with finishing the care package as long as he avoids the knights, so that's what he does. He approaches the friendly bartender again, mentally going over his list. "Do you have any blankets, perhaps?"

"We're all much in need of warm blankets around here, sir," the bartender says sheepishly. "But the merchants will be moving up to Dragonhead camp, then Whitebrim; I'm sure they must have something of the sort in stock, with how rarely they manage to get that far."

Khaishan brightens. Guiding caravans would be much more pleasant than a manhunt. His brother will finish his venture tonight, and it would make him feel more at ease if he had someone a bit more adept than a bird to fight at his side. It's been a good while since they fought together.

The merchants in question are indeed the caravan they traveled alongside on the way in, currently speaking in hushed and insistent tones with some sort of authority figure. Khaishan waits patiently for the conversation to end. It looks as if they'll be there debating for hours, when the merchant spares a sidelong glance and stops abruptly with open relief.

"You there!" The merchant calls. He dashes up to Khaishan. "Your bowmanship was quite impressive. Might I assume you're an adventurer?"

"Of a sort, yes. The cook said you would be having fair trouble reaching the full journey to Whitebrim?"

The merchant nods emphatically. "I will, and can't make heads or tails of the reaction! They need supplies, yet not a soul will escort us!"

"The knights I've spoken to claim that heretics have been unusually aggressive. I would imagine they're all bracing for some sort of attack."

"Well surely they'll be bracin' for freezin' t' death, won't they? What'll it cost to get us up there, then?"

Khaishan smiles pleasantly. "If you can wait until tomorrow, I'll only ask for a small selection of supplies I need by tonight. After that, we can consider payment."

The merchant looks absolutely euphoric. "Yes, yes of course! By all means, shop away!"

The selection Khaishan eventually takes out of the caravan is small; a wool blanket, a change of clothes fit for an elezen, a stretch of canvas that could make for shelter, and a pot. Any other tools he decides to make from a hunk of wood. The merchant observes him curiously, and furrows his brow when Khaishan hops down again.

"That truly all? Most expensive thing you picked is the canvas."

"It's best to pinch pennies for the first stretch, especially if there's no one willing to escort you back. Wouldn't serve to be stranded in the furthest reaches of Coerthas for a week," Khaishan says.

"Well…of course, of course. We should set out early morning. They haven't taken stock of the needs of those in Skyfire Locks, somethin' about a house rivalry. Can't make heads or tails of it."

"A friend has business there, I would be delighted to wait with you. You have my gratitude as much as I have yours." Khaishan bows courteously and takes his new bounty back to Juniper in the stables. He bound it up like a parcel with the canvas when putting it all together, but that parcel is too large for her saddlebags, so he has to undo it and place the items back in one-by-one instead. He has a surprising amount of herbs stockpiled, he finds, and they'd serve well for the stew.

"Quite the package."

Damn it all.

"Ser Alberic," Khaishan greets crisply.

It doesn't go unnoticed that he is blocking Khaishan's only exit. Or that he looks tired, far more tired than barely an hour ago.

"How fares your retainer?"

"She found some beets. The ixals call them remo'tta. It seems they've never had Ishgardian beet soup, so we're trying to figure out the best approximation, now." He shows off the flasks of vegetable stock.

"So…You haven't spotted Estinien." His gaze on Khaishan's goods is heavy.

"…I don't know if you're implying something, but these are for a friend in Revenant's Toll. I'm having Alulu take them after we eat. You're free to escort her with me if it soothes your suspicions."

"Then you've absolved yourself of the work?"

"I would think you would be delighted to be rid of me, after the attention we've brought down upon your head."

Alberic just sighs. "Yes, that was rather embarrassing, wasn't it. For the both of us. Thankfully, they don't suspect Estinien himself has done anything. They have no reason to. Until such a time the Horde lays siege upon Ishgard and the Eye is found unaccounted for, I doubt they will."

Khaishan hesitates in his packing. His hands slowly fall from the bags, and he looks to Alberic with a furrowed brow. "How many people know of the Eye's disappearance?"

Alberic stills. Khaishan knows the answer even before it leaves the man's lips.

"No one. Only me."

 _"Only you?"_ He stands abruptly. "This is of _immense_ political significance, ser Alberic, though that is one thing you _hadn't_ deigned to tell me. I am _most_ curious as to how you thought it would be even _remotely_ appropriate to fling an adventurer at a man who is apparently some _captain of the guard._ How well would I have faired, do you think, if I had a mind to try him in combat?"

"If you were trained well enough by Ywain, _you would know not to!_ What other options do I have?" Alberic shouts back. "I've told you, did I not, if they find him, he will be executed without a second thought! That boy is like a son to me, and there is no greater failure than allowing him to fall to his first misstep, when I have left my _uncountable_ misdeeds with neither judgment nor scorn. If using such vague methods could spare me a chance to save him, then—"

He falters and clenches his teeth, unable to continue.

Khaishan's irritation withers in the face of his guilt - he had assumed the worst of Alberic this entire affair, and made a mess of his attempts to resolve this peacefully. He couldn't be hypocritical on top of it all by remaining offended, after the decisions he's made. "Then I won't hold you to it. But I do not wish to be in conflict with him. As skilled as I am, I would think myself as the level of a mere knight, not the _Azure Dragoon_."

"I…Of course. Still…Khaishan, you'll be spending time in Coerthas, yes?"

"Yes…?"

"Then…Well." He reaches down his collar and takes out a beautiful flat blue stone, formed naturally, though its asymmetrical edges are smooth. The glyph has been carved with old knowledge, forming what appears to be a dragon's head. Khaishan hasn't had the opportunity to look at many job stones, but this one is clearly valuable.

"I would burden you with a request. It was wrong of me to push you so blindly into my affairs, but I am a desperate man. My coffers are yours if only you honor it." He removes the necklace and holds it out to Khaishan. "This stone is linked to the Eye, and the Eye to it. I am nothing more than a knight, now, and no one will ask after it. It will not give or take knowledge, as the Eye itself must first call to you, but you should be able to sense the Eye with it in hand. It's how I was attempting to track him."

"And what would you have me do?"

"Ask after him, nothing more. His intentions, if he's been sighted…" Alberic's face falls to utter weariness, as if he has been wrung out a thousand times and expects to be wrung a thousand more. "…If…If he's well."

The despair is unbearable to behold, clutching dreadfully at his heart. He takes the stone with a shaking hand. The moment his fingers touch it, he feels its essence trying to cling to him, can identify almost effortlessly the unusual jump Estinien had assumed was lancework, and its utility. He pushes back against the crystal, at least while Alberic is watching him. He's only taking the thing as a boon to a helpless man, and doesn't want to burden himself further with whatever heinous thing the Eye is. Estinien was already acting strangely when the Eye first _'called'._

"A fair request. I will strive more firmly for discretion." He finishes packing Juniper up and swings a leg over her, prompting Alberic to step out of his way without another word. It's a relief the conversation could end so amicably.

Khaishan doesn't even bother with gritting his teeth through mistrustful glares, instead going out through the side gate and making his way around to the road. The ixali are bloodthirsty, but at least they're bloodthirsty for good reason. Returning to them is actually enough to lighten his mood. Not even the feeling of the wall between himself and the soul crystal finally crumbling into the rush of a bond is enough to ruin his optimism.

When he gets back, he finds Alulu and all six of the ixali building an even bigger firepit. There's a collection of bowls sitting on a boulder, along with a fine-looking wooden ladle. There is even more beets piled up around them.

Alulu leaps to her feet with her arms in the air. "They said I can come to Xelphatol to help with crops, as long as I stay inside a balloon and only on the lower levels! There's a few critters, but won't that be amazing? I hope to see _every_ city-state soon! Oh, if only I could see _Ishgard_ …"

 _{{Must have been very hard to talk to her,}}_ Khaishan says to the mentor.

 _{{I tell her she should come, that_ _'s easy, but telling her Xelphatol is our home is harder. Does she understand?}}_

 _{{She says it's a city-state, like_ Ishgard _or_ Limsa Lominsa _.}}_

 _{{More like the Stonetowers,_ Ishgard _. We don't trade. No one would have us.}}_

A sour topic, then. Khaishan brings Juniper to their newly doubled firepit and starts unloading. "I've got the stock, and plenty of herbs for flavour."

"Ooh, let me see! Ahhhh, yes yes, all very popular with cooking…" Alulu peers over his collection appraisingly. "And quite elegantly picked and preserved! Khaishan, have you been getting practice in?"

"I am _technically_ a botanist as well." The botanist guild was one of the few places who was not only happy to have him, but was eager to put him to work. He's not exactly a master at discerning quality product, but there's something relaxing about menial work all the same.

Alulu claps her hands together in delight. "Alright, let the cooking lesson begi-"

_**THUMP.** _

The poor lalafell is coated in a cloud of disturbed snow kicked up by the sudden drop of an enormous figure. Khaishan reaches behind him for his spear, and curses when he feels the leaves of his conjury wand. He hadn't switched sets since he unearthed that ice sprite.

The 'threat' makes itself clear as the snowflakes settle down again. It's not an enormous figure, but three ordinary karakul corpses, all dropped in a line. Khaishan looks up to see Estinien standing on the ridge, just above the tunnel. Just as Alberic said, the soul crystal warms against his chest in his presence.

"You serve Coerthan Beet Soup with meat," Estinien declares. "Ishgardians would sooner serve it with rat meat than no meat at all."

"Oh, I've…never made a stew like this with meat," Khaishan says nervously.

"I figured." Estinien plops down from his perch. "Sear and braise it. With water, if you must."

"Somebody's hungry." Khaishan's hunting knife is stashed on his other gear, so he fishes another from Juniper's saddlebags in order to begin working on the karakul.

"You try roasting birds for every meal." He returns to his position of folding his arms and leaning against the nearest wall.

"I thought you might be on the run, as an apparent criminal."

"Aye, that was my intention. And yet…" Estinien points with his chin at Khaishan. "Do you know how the Eye chooses its bearers?"

"It chooses its bearers?" Khaishan slices open the first karakul's belly. The mentor of the ixal drags their failure of a student over to watch him.

"The Azure Dragoon can harness the power of the Eye, but only if they are chosen. Using a soul crystal forged from the Eye's aether, its power can be harnessed. Countless lancers have been tried, and countless have failed. Only one may be chosen to bear it at a time."

"And now it's chosen another…you're right, that is strange." This is dangerous. Khaishan wonders if he should keep saying he hasn't seen Estinien. He'd hate for the two to confer their knowledge.

"Strange isn't what keeps me. Why would the Eye, which selects dragoons to bear it, choose a _Conjurer_?"

Khaishan blinks.

He thinks back to his time in Coerthas, and an embarrassing pattern emerges; that is to say, despite being the best at lancework, he has not been doing a lot of lancing. He was using bowmanship to come in, and of course the conjury, and then when asked about his leap, his reaction had been very distant to the art.

Khaishan isn't privvy to whatever line of thought that would have Estinien believe his combat mastery couldn't be diverse. An Ishgardian thing, he's sure. He can feel the crystal cozy on his skin, craving the need to have its knowledge expressed, but Khaishan ignores it and guts his beast with a delicate hand. "That is also strange, yes."

The mentor ixali inches closer. _{{Look, you daft fool, the air bladders_ _—}}_

 _{{We should just rely on the heat!}}_ The student squawks.

 _{{What are we, featherless? Pay attention, Mazel! The ruin you made of your skinning is bad for more than one reason. You cut too close, it_ _'s full of holes. It's full of holes, it can't hold anything. It's too thin, it's too brittle. It's too thin, it becomes difficult to remove all the hair and still have a strong piece of leather. You see?}}_

Mazel shakes his head. _{{I'll figure it out.}}_

 _{{Figure it out now!}}_ The mentor hisses.

Khaishan's lips pinch, but he continues dressing the animal, carefully removing the skin and then the meat, then using the snow to wash it, while Alulu prepares more vegetables. The mentor takes the hide and points out small details of the process to Mazel, who looks miserable, a mood that only worsens when he's dragged over to the second corpse and given a knife.

 _{{He seems troubled,}}_ Khaishan says dryly to the four ixali watching the scene like it's the peak of theatre.

 _{{We all must spend three summers as warriors as soon as we're able, and expect to serve longer. The Galeborn train for years before they set out, but the rest of us must make do with what skills we have. Us here are all very bad at making do, so Xethuli Huizan is our guide. Her arm was injured, so guiding is all she does. But they are cruel to make her take care of_ Mazel. _}}_

 _{{Such an unwilling student,}}_ Khaishan notes with a wry twist of his mouth.

 _{{He does not want to fight. There are many like that. Not like_ Ehcatl, _of course, who scorn Garuda, but still.}}_

 _{{War is bitter and loveless,}}_ Khaishan hums.

 _{{But it must be done,}}_ the ixali returns.

_{{Must it?}}_

Estinien abruptly strides forward, startling both of them, and stops in front of the suddenly petrified Mazel and Xethuli. He leans forward, grips Mazel's knife hand, and says "Don't be careful. If you must rip, _rip it_."

Mazel shoots a wild, confused look at Khaishan, who's eyebrows are raised to his hairline.

 _{{Erm_ _…I think you've annoyed him. He says to tear the meat off with the hide if you must.}}_

 _{{Tear the meat_ _…with the hide.}}_ Mazel presses the knife deeper and starts working again. Miraculously, he manages to proceed through the entire process without Xethuli stopping him, though the end result is…deeply sickening to behold. A hide is a hide, though.

The ixali next to Khaishan points to Estinien, who has returned to his leaning position. _{{He is an air warrior. We tried attacking their people once. Jumped after us no matter how high we went! Can't ever make enemies with them. Of course_ Mazel _would.}}_

 _{{He's the leader of the air warriors,}}_ Khaishan says.

The ixali squawks a curse.

"Okay, meat time!" Alulu shouts.

It isn't very hard to make the stew, once Khaishan has the principles of it, and after the vegetables are added he finds it's a very simple dish. Estinien is still watching him like a hawk. He would probably like Khaishan to propose a theory as to why the Eye might choose him, or to nominate the information he is in fact a lancer, but Khaishan is accustomed to not telling people he's been chosen by an unfathomable power, and he's not about to start now.

He keeps his hands busy by assembling the care package for Alulu to take. Once again he bundles it into a parcel, this time adding a flask of water. He turns to the block of wood, which he begins carving. It's not very big, so he resolves to make something small; a little knife with serrated edges that can be used to cut firewood. He doesn't have time for much else anyway.

Estinien shifts. It's time to pay attention to him again, apparently.

"Who's that for?" The dragoon asks, nodding to the items on the open canvas.

"A friend I am also aiding and abetting. I can't say he doesn't deserve to be jailed, but as his charges are likely to be fatal, I find there's little choice."

"Ah. I see now where your lack of passion lies."

Khaishan lowers his work and gives Estinien a perfectly blank look. "He loves you desperately, you know."

Estinien tenses.

All these people are so anxious about the motivations of others. If anyone said that to his brother, he would only become more comfortable, which would be simple common sense, but apparently having any trust in others is a terrible omen to half the people he's met in Aldenard. Khaishan huffs and returns to carving. "He wants to know if you're well."

"Of course I'm well," Estinien says stiffly.

"Mmm. And your intentions, of course. If you think you can manage what you're doing safely. If he can do anything to help, I'm sure, though he is too uneasy to say so."

Estinien's expression is inscrutable behind the beak of his visor, but the tension in the air is palpable. After a moment, he relaxes, then settles all the way back into the lean. It takes a long stretch of time for him to speak again.

"The Eye was plucked from the great wyrm, Nidhogg. He is a beast capable of razing cities, worse than even your primals. Alberic raised me to be the one who will bring him down once and for all. For that I am…grateful. And _confident_." He pauses, then continues. "But. If he is truly so concerned, I will trust him with my affairs."

Khaishan beams. All this assumption of subterfuge and conflict. He's never fared well in conflict. It really is simpler to keep communicating until all feelings are adequately expressed and an accord is made, whether it's teacher and student or a parent and child. If this big scary dragoon thief was willing to help poor Mazel with his skinning, maybe it's not beyond him either.

Estinien isn't done, of course. "As for you-"

"Soup's ready!"

Any attempt to stay on-topic is interrupted by all six ixali climbing back up and fighting over the bowls with beak and claw. Alulu is riding on the shoulders of the ixal Khaishan was talking to earlier. Nhaama knows what on earth they were doing down there. They all pile around the firepit and fight to stick their bowls out to him. He fills each with plenty of meat, and they immediately scatter like flakes in the wind to eat in private, save for Xethuli Huizan.

She takes a sip and savors it. After doing this a few times, she takes a bite of the meat. Then she nods. _{{Much different than how we serve it. Often we eat them raw in Natalan.}}_

_{{Army food. I hear this complaint many times.}}_

Xethuli looks at him grimly. _{{We are at war with tree people, you know. We are aggressors.}}_

 _{{Peace is_ _…not won…with great purity. To assume an evil enemy…impossible.}}_ He taps the keratin on his chin. _{{I hate that you must attack the forest. Horrible and cruel. But I know it is because of many different things. All of us have hurts. I help a criminal I don't like because I know he has hurts. I help this stranger here who I don't like and who is a criminal, because his father has hurts. I help my mother, even though all the world hurts because she lives. I just want things to be peaceful, even if it wrongs others. I must be kind.}}_

Xethuli taps her bowl with her talons, making a sound not unlike Khaishan's fingernail on his chin. She has that weariness about her that Alberic had, of unbearable burden and hopelessness.

_{{The south wind is a gentle one. Mazel is a good boy. Could not possibly serve Garuda, very clumsy little idiot, no interest in flight. But a good boy.}}_

  
  


She leaves it at that. She doesn't have to add anything more.

Estinien has finally relaxed his entire body thanks to the soup, proving the bribe successful. He too savors each sip, and doesn't hold back messily slurping the meat from the broth, splattering some on his grim helmet. Xethuli lets out a quiet and wheezing laugh, even though she and her companions eat just as sloppily. Alulu, on the other hand, eats her soup with intense concentration. Khaishan wonders if she's attempting to divine how each ingredient is cooked.

That reminds him, regardless of how this conflict of Alberic and Estinien ends, he still has work to do. "Alulu, we'll be heading north early morning to escort a merchant. I'd like you to bring this parcel to Foulques, and tell him of my difficulties with gloom. I'd also like to know where his home is, so that I might retrieve his things once I return. Ring my brother so that I can have a second as we travel. I'll be turning in early tonight."

Just in time, too, because the sun is finally setting. It seems both too soon and long coming; this day has felt like it's taken a thousand years. His knife lies unfinished at his side, still embedded in its block of wood. He wishes he paid more attention to Beatin's lessons on detailed pieces like these. He had been too practical when focusing on lance arms, shields, and masks, all very simple and easy to make. He has no choice but to simply finish it another time.

Alulu slurps the rest of her soup noisily and wipes her face. "Will do, sir! You can count on me!"

"And take Juniper. I don't want you wandering around alone in the dark, no matter how confident you are in your ability to sneak."

"Oh, I get the _big_ bird!" She coaxes Juniper with a cooing voice, and then scrambles up the chocobo's side. She's so tiny on the saddle she has to stand in order to ride properly.

"Be back soon, and don't ask too many questions of people?"

"Will _not_ do, sir. Take care of your health."

"I will try." He sends Juniper off with a slap behind the saddle and stretches. He needed this. Just having a pleasant meal surrounded by people putting aside their differences. He hasn't had much opportunity to socialize in his time in Eorzea. Or when traveling. Or in his entire lifetime.

Estinien watches him, as he's been watching him the entire time, empty bowl in hand. The man does not let up. "Only those chosen by the Eye have the strength to defeat Nidhogg."

This _again?_

"I'm not doing any slaying, if you think you must defeat me for the privilege," Khaishan sighs.

"I wasn't thinking that." He looks at his empty bowl. "Nidhogg is defined by his rage. I have my own rage to contend with, that oft threatens to consume."

  


Khaishan recalls the way it felt when the Eye scrutinized him, trying to find the depth of his negative emotions so that it could compare them to its own. He understands the type of burden it must be, the urge to blend one's sadness and anger with something that revels in it…

Estinien picks up on his thoughtfulness, and his tone becomes insistent. "You are unsuited in every way imaginable. I wonder if that in of itself is the reason it calls to you. If we were meant to fight as one—"

"Ser Estinien," Khaishan interrupts, bright and sharp. He raises his head to make what counts for eye contact. "My mentor asked me to come because an old friend of his was worried about you, nothing more. I've been called by fate before, in the same manner as this, even, and it has held no greater meaning. If you need assistance, I will help. However, that Eye is host to an immense amount of aether. Aether linked to a host that you yourself claim to be worse than even primals." He keeps his chin up and gaze straight. "If I fight your dragon, I will die."

He holds the look, keeps it as firm as he can. It's difficult. He's unaccustomed to people needing his help for something so serious. The rejection feels horrible and rude, but the fact remains that his inability to help is both specific and guaranteed.

Estinien nods, seemingly satisfied. "Then we will keep the mystery unsolved, and I shall speak with Alberic on the rest. Tell him I've eaten a hearty meal."

Khaishan lets out a surprised snort, and waves to Estinien as he leaps away. The ixal don't scramble to kill Khaishan this time, instead ambling out with arms full of beets, chittering exhausted goodbyes.

There. That wasn't so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Foulques next chapter!!!! I don't know why I wrote so much Estinien Picnic other than introducing a character and not making them feel like fully fleshed entities would give me a nervous breakdown. Literally taught myself to be in love with ixali thanks to this. My brain is diseased
> 
> It doesn't come up here and won't for the while but the Ixal who will not stop bullying Mazel is named Yotoli.
> 
> EDIT: Adjusted some small bits of Ixal lore since I found info from the lorebooks dont mind me


End file.
